{"id":82920,"date":"2015-02-20T20:26:22","date_gmt":"2015-02-21T01:26:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=82920"},"modified":"2015-02-24T11:39:17","modified_gmt":"2015-02-24T16:39:17","slug":"staff-picks-lumber-yards-low-crawling-luxury-cages","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/02\/20\/staff-picks-lumber-yards-low-crawling-luxury-cages\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Lumber Yards, Low-crawling, Luxury Cages"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"4-Cover-4\"<\/a>

From Sara Cwynar\u2019s cover to the newly designed New York Times Magazine<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Not long ago a friend gave me a very slim book by the French sinologist Jean Fran\u00e7ois Billeter called Trois essais sur la traduction<\/a><\/em>. Like the (similarly skinny) 19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei<\/em>, by Eliot Weinberg and Octavio Paz, this is a book all about specifics\u2014the specific problems of translating classical Chinese poetry. And like that book, this one contains an entire philosophy of translation. \u201cThe young musician learns to analyse the form of the work, and by interpreting the work he brings it to life: he makes it his own twice over. In literature, the student learns mainly how to talk about works. He does not make them his own the way the musician does \u2026 The result is a frustration that no one admits but that pretty much everyone feels. Students of literature can acquire at least some of [a writer\u2019s] power through the practice of translation, since it consists in saying<\/em> in one language what the author has said<\/em> in another\u2014saying it as well as he did, so that it produces the same effect.\u201d I hope someone will bring that power to bear on these graceful, deeply sensible case studies. \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

Of the\u00a0New York Times Magazine<\/em>\u2019s quartet of covers coming with its relaunch this weekend, my favorite is Sara Cwynar\u2019s Death Star globe cloaked in a distorted TV test pattern that practically emits a high-frequency reference tone. It turns out that Gary Shteyngart\u2019s essay for the issue<\/a>\u2014a chronicle of watching Russian TV for a week straight\u2014pairs quite well with Cwynar\u2019s evil-empire cover; he must still have the drone of Putin\u2019s television clouding his brain. (Shteyngart\u2019s\u00a0exploit reminds me of Caity Weaver\u2019s challenge last year of TGI Friday\u2019s Endless Appetizers promotion, during which she ate mozzarella sticks for close to fourteen hours<\/a>.)\u00a0Shteyngart performed his feat\u00a0Black Mirror\u00a0<\/em>style: in front of three large television screens installed\u00a0in a \u201cluxury cage\u201d at the Four Seasons in New York. From the variety of programs\u2014talk shows, news, classic films, comedy, and lots and lots of dancing\u2014preposterously braided together by state propaganda, Shteyngart plucks hard truths (or, in Putin parlance, \u201cmanly truths\u201d) about Russia\u2019s increasing distance from any kind of geopolitical middle ground. \u201cNow the cool nations are no longer inviting Russia for unsupervised sleepovers,\u201d he writes, “and the only kids still leaving notes on Russia\u2019s locker are Kim Jong-un and Ra\u00fal Castro.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

Zadie Smith wrote a piece for Rookie<\/a><\/em> this week detailing her antipathy toward keeping a diary: \u201cThe dishonesty of diary writing\u2014this voice you put on for supposedly no one but yourself\u2014I found that idea so depressing \u2026 I don\u2019t want any record of my days.\u201d That\u2019s an intriguing sentiment to me\u2014I\u2019ve been caught up in The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard<\/a><\/em>, a five-hundred-page kaleidoscope of the New York School artist\u2019s writings and drawings, diary entries included. Smith, miffed by the staged grandeur that crept into the pages of her own diary, renounces the practice. But Brainard renounces the grandeur. In Collected Writings<\/em>, there\u2019s no asphyxiating sense of malaise or swooping trauma, no insurmountable woe, no quixotic dreams of romance\u2014which is\u00a0precisely what\u2019s drawn me to the collection. Instead, one gets what one might expect from a diary: the quotidian. We learn what Brainard liked in bed (a \u201cgood plain blow-job; It\u2019s rhythm that makes me come the best\u201d), what he thought about on the train (\u201cI like that lumber yard\u201d), his impression of Jamaica (\u201cIt\u2019s a hard place to believe in\u201d). As Dan Chaisson puts it<\/a>, \u201c[Brainard\u2019s] writing specializes in the exploration of the minor emotions often slighted by \u2018serious\u2019 writers: contentment rather than elation, glumness rather than despair, horniness instead of passion, and, everywhere, a non-existential, completely ordinary loneliness.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/p>\n

In his new memoir My Life as a Foreign Country<\/a><\/em>, the poet Brian Turner traces his history as a young infantryman in Bosnia and Iraq, interlacing his story with those of his grandfather (who served in World War II), his father (Cold War), and his uncle (Vietnam), to find some element of truth behind the history of human suffering. Turner writes tenderly from his enemies\u2019 perspective, imagining them asleep with their wives, being blown up while building IEDs meant for American soldiers, and even training their crosshairs on one Sgt Turner himself. Neither didactic nor bombastic, My Life as a Foreign Country<\/em> focuses on the place of the individual in war. It doesn\u2019t hurt that Turner is from my hometown of Fresno, California. \u201cI was prepared to low-crawl,\u201d he writes, \u201cwith my facedown in the nastiest, foulest, brackish sludge and sewer the world could offer, that I was from Fresno and people from Fresno can take it, can take it in spades and shovel fulls, people from Fresno can take decades of it, that people from Fresno can outcrawl any motherfucker on the planet \u2026 That\u2019s why I joined.\u201d \u2014Jeffery Gleaves
<\/strong><\/p>\n

Reading Silvina Ocampo\u2019s stories\u2014newly collected in Thus Were Their Faces<\/a><\/em>\u2014feels like looting the keep of a decrepit, moldering castle and plucking jewels from the fingers of skeleton royals. Ocampo, a well-born Argentine who died in 1993, melded the gothic and the fabulist in her fiction, writing tales of such unflinching comic cruelty that Borges had no choice but to proclaim her a clairvoyant. She does seem to see everything, and seeing everything is terrifying. In her great novella \u201cThe Impostor,\u201d a boy narrates his journey to a remote ranch, where he\u2019s supposed to rescue a family friend from a life of madness; by the end the narrator\u2019s very existence is called into question, and questions of insanity are moot. In its images\u2014damp flagstones, roaring bonfires, a portrait of a jaguar, a dead dog covered in flies\u2014she builds a sense of dread that rises to a disturbing anticlimax. When Ocampo departs from realism, she does so casually, almost misleadingly\u2014not to exercise her imagination but to reckon with all that we\u2019ll never know or understand. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

When I saw Kelly Link in conversation with Emma Straub last week, Link was dubious about ghosts: \u201cMaybe, probably they exist,\u201d she said. Her newest story collection, Get in Trouble<\/a>, <\/em>hinges on this maybe\/probably dichotomy, as her characters take the fantastic for granted but also question their own perceptions. Maybe, probably, your best friend\u2019s animatronic Ghost Boyfriend is really possessed. Maybe, probably, your spaceship won\u2019t disappear into a black hole. Get in Trouble <\/em>is one of the strongest collections I\u2019ve read recently; each story is finely calibrated, with Link\u2019s surreal but utterly believable logic, suspense, and heart.\u00a0\u2014Catherine Carberry<\/strong><\/p>\n

I picked up The Secret Life of Salvador Dal\u00ed<\/em><\/a>, his autobiography, because I\u2019d heard it was even more outrageous than his art.\u00a0It did not disappoint, even from its opening line: \u201cAt the age of was six I wanted to be a cook. At seven, I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.\u201d Dal\u00ed\u2019s narcissism is unusually engaging. The book spans his childhood (littered with absurd scenes such as one in which he nearly bites a bat in half) through to age thirty-seven; it encompasses meditations on surrealism, philosophy, religion, and ultimately, falling in love. As of late, I\u2019ve found myself more consumed by his life than by my own. If nothing else, the book provides a fascinating insight into an incurable ego. \u2014Kit Connolly<\/strong><\/p>\n

This winter, as I\u2019ve trudged through snow puddles and gales of whipping wind, I\u2019ve found a small kinship with Werner Herzog. During the fall of 1974, Herzog began a journey from Munich to Paris upon hearing that his friend, the film critic Lotte Eisner, was gravely ill. As documented in his book, Of Walking in Ice<\/a><\/em>, he explains his decision quite simply: \u201cI set off \u2026 in full faith, believing that she would stay alive if I came on foot.\u201d Along the way, Herzog encountered blizzards and torrential rain, limped for miles on a swollen Achilles tendon, and, at night, searched for abandoned houses to break into and sleep. He also experienced complete isolation, stretches where he saw nothing but goats and sheep, and when people did emerge, they were shadowy figures, present for only a line or two before he passed them by. At one point, near the end of his account, Herzog contemplates, \u201cIf I make it, no one will know what this journey means.\u201d But the mystery of his faith in the seemingly purposeless act of walking is reason enough to read the book, in the cold months. \u2014Lynette Lee<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Not long ago a friend gave me a very slim book by the French sinologist Jean Fran\u00e7ois Billeter called Trois essais sur la traduction. Like the (similarly skinny) 19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei, by Eliot Weinberg and Octavio Paz, this is a book all about specifics\u2014the specific problems of translating classical Chinese poetry. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[17131,533,17129,17132,670,17130,17133,2216],"class_list":["post-82920","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-brian-turner","tag-gary-shteyngart","tag-jean-francois-billeter","tag-kelly-link","tag-salvador-dali","tag-sara-cwynar","tag-silvina-ocampo","tag-werner-herzog"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Silvina Ocampo, Gary Shteyngart, Brian Turner<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of \u201cThe Paris Review\u201d is reading this week.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/02\/20\/staff-picks-lumber-yards-low-crawling-luxury-cages\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Lumber Yards, Low-crawling, Luxury Cages by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"February 20, 2015 \u2013 Not long ago a friend gave me a very slim book by the French sinologist Jean Fran\u00e7ois Billeter called Trois essais sur la traduction. 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